


the long and winding road

by vacantstars



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-08 11:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21475102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vacantstars/pseuds/vacantstars
Summary: A series of drabbles mostly written for prompts on r/dragonage. Pairings and ratings will vary.
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke, Leliana/Male Warden, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Kudos: 10





	1. hurricane; anders/hawke

Anders was restless.

That was nothing new; not with him sharing a body with a spirit of justice, after all. But he'd been hunched over a desk furiously adding notes and new paragraphs onto the latest draft of his manifesto since he'd given up tossing and turning in bed. Whether he'd been writing for hours or days or weeks, he wasn't certain. His hands were stained with ink and had the faintest traces of blue light, but it didn't matter. He'd make Elthina, the Chantry, someone see reason if he just worked hard enough and found the right words—

"Anders." He heard Hawke's tired voice from the doorway and nearly jumped. "Come back to bed.”

"Sorry," he said quickly, turning in his chair to face her. She was wearing a pair of dark pants and a shirt that had once belong to him, yet somehow wound up on her side of the wardrobe. It was horribly domestic, and sometimes he still had trouble believing that this all wasn't just some elaborate dream some demon came up with to keep him placated. "I just needed to write something down.”

"Your manifesto will still be there in the morning. Or later, rather." Hawke motioned towards the window. It was still raining outside, but the first hints of gray, early morning light were already beginning to stream through the curtains. "I'm cold. Come back to sleep.”

_I'm worried about you,_ was what she was really saying, and he knew that. _Please take care of yourself. _He hadn't meant to worry her, but he'd been so lost in the cave of his own mind that he'd lost track of time. A part of him— Justice, perhaps— wanted to continue working until he was certain that his work was perfect enough for someone to listen to it. But he was still only a man, and the look Hawke was giving him wasn't doing anything to help his resolve.

"Just a moment," he said after a pause. "If I can just get this part right…"

"Show me?" Hawke offered, walking over and draping her arms around his shoulders. He wasn't sure what he'd done to deserve her love and support, and he knew he’d never be worthy of it. "Oh, I like this line. This one here.”

They worked on the manifesto until Hawke finally managed to convince him to come back to bed and at least try to sleep. He wasn't exactly sure when the last time he'd actually slept was, but somehow, he was still wide awake. It was quiet in their bedroom; all he could hear was the sound of the rain against the windowpanes and Hawke's breathing. Her heartbeat against his chest was grounding, somehow; a physical reminder that she was still there with him. It was a strange sense of peace, even with his thoughts as stormy and the world as turbulent as it was. The mages' situation was becoming more and more desperate by the day, the Underground was all but destroyed, Elthina was unwilling to act, and he was certain that Meredith would throw Hawke in the Gallows the moment she found an excuse to do so. Something had to be done before it was too late; and if he had to be the one to pay the price of that _something_...then so be it.

"I'm sorry," he muttered into Hawke's hair. _I never deserved you._ "I'm so sorry.”

_"Sometimes I think you write like you're running out of time," _Hawke had told him once. Even if she'd mostly been joking when she'd said it, she was right.

He was running out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyday he fights like he's running out of time.
> 
> "Hurricane" has always been Anders' song imo, and thus, this was born.


	2. remembrance; gen

"We should rest here for the night,” Cassandra announces, and no one argues with her.

They’d spent most of the day helping Fairbanks and his people, but taking out the Freemen had been as exhausting. No one talks much as they set up camp, everyone too tired or lost in their own thoughts to make conversation. By the time they get a good fire going, it’s already well past sundown. The only other light comes from the moon and stars. It’s quiet, except for the sounds of leaves rustling in the light breeze, wild animals calling to each other, and the Seeker’s footsteps as she goes to take the first watch.

It’d be peaceful if there wasn’t blood etched into every stone in this place, still crying out to him hundreds of years later.

Cole rocks a little on his feet as he sits. He can feel the eyes of all of the ancient elves who died here on him, but also of the people back in Fairbanks’ camp who thanked him for helping rescue their friends. He’s never had so many people staring at him at once. It’s terrifying.

Things were different a week ago, before they’d found the Templar who killed him and left him to rot in the darkness of the Spyre. A week ago, no one would have remembered him. He’d help them, and then they’d forget. But Varric and Lavellan taught him that maybe forgetting wasn’t the answer. The Templar will remember him, just as Cole remembers the stale whiskey on his breath and the fear, fear of the ghost he helped create, the murder of the boy with sunken eyes come back to haunt him at last…

No, that man will remember him. Just as the people here do. The change is frightening.

Who had he really been protecting, when he made them forget?

“Cole?” Lavellan asks, his voice cutting through the stillness of the night. He’s pressed up against Dorian’s side, head on the other mage’s shoulder as he rests. Even tired, he’s still looking out for a wayward spirit boy. “Are you alright?”

“Those people,” Cole mumbles, still rocking. “They remember me.”

“They will,” the Inquisitor agrees, “but there are worse ways to be remembered than kind.”

“Especially given all the killing we do,” Dorian chimes in, and Lavellan pokes him in the rib.

Lavellan is like Rhys, he thinks. They’ve both treated him kindly, maybe too kindly. And it scares him to think that he could put Lavellan in danger just as he did Rhys. It scares him to think he can drive away the only people who’ve seen through him.

“I want to help,” Cole says quietly. “But they don’t forget when I help anymore. It hurts.”

“Cole—” Lavellan starts, but he continues.

“You always worry about me.” He doesn’t meet the Inquisitor’s eyes. “When I go dark, you’re there to…thank you. You wanted to help me. And maybe…maybe you’ll make me better. I want to be better. I don’t want to hurt.”

“Change can be a good thing,” Lavellan offers gently, his smile illuminated by the glow of the campfire. “I’m proud of you, Cole, for coming here. For trying, for forgiving. And you know your friends will always be here to help you.”

“Always?” His voice sounds small, childlike even in his own ears.

“Always,” Lavellan repeats. His heart is genuine, and that makes it a little less scary. “And besides, now that you’re human, maybe you’ll start needing to eat like the rest of us. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried the days-old cheese.”

“Don’t scare the boy, Amatus. What you and Cassandra consider edible would swear anyone off of food for life. It’d be a scandal if word got out that the Inquisitor survives on a diet that tastes of elfroot and despair,” Dorian chides, and Lavellan hides his snort against the side of his neck.

_Friends, _Cole thinks as he watches them, and feels lighter than he has in days. Change can be good, Lavellan said; maybe he was right after all. It won’t hurt and take those he cares about away. Remembering him won’t mean losing them. It means letting Fairbanks’ friends remember who saved them. It means allowing himself to leave the shadows of the Spyre and the Templars who left him there. It means learning to let people— his _friends_—see him.

Cole wonders if he might like being human after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After reading Asunder, I adopted Cole. Sorry Bioware, he's mine now.


	3. liar; gen, anders/hawke

The house is quiet. It isn’t just the usual quiet that comes from the stillness of the middle of the night and everyone being asleep; no, this an oppressive, grim silence that hangs over the entire estate and leaves Marian alone with her thoughts. She can barely even hear Anders’ breathing next to her over the sound of her own shock and guilty conscience.

Her mother is dead and it’s all her fault.

She keeps replaying the scene from that damn Lowtown foundry over and over again in her head. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees nothing but the crude stitches holding what was left of her mother together and that awful moth-eaten dress. The feeling of cradling Leandra’s dying body in her arms and watching her die right there is probably going to haunt her for the rest of her days.

It’s all her fault.

If she’d actually caught that sadistic madman years ago or listened to Gascard instead of killing him, none of this would have happened. If she’d been stronger, faster, _better,_ her mother would still be alive— but she isn’t any of those things. She can’t save anyone, and now Leandra is the latest person to pay for her incompetence.

Just like Bethany.

Bethany. Poor, sweet Bethany. 

_“Why did you let her charge off like that?!” _

There isn’t a day that her mother’s demand doesn’t run through her head. Maybe Leandra hadn’t truly blamed her for her sister’s death and was only speaking out of grief, but Marian certainly blamed herself. She should’ve seen what Bethany was doing and grabbed her. She shouldn’t have let her leave her side. She should’ve done something to stop her from getting killed by that ogre. 

They didn’t even have time to bury her body. They had to leave her there, out in the open in the midst of a Blight, while they fled to Kirkwall without her. It felt _wrong_. It took Marian months to fully process that her sister is dead. Sometimes, she would look over her shoulder and expect Bethany to lecture her on her reckless behavior, or come home to Gamlen’s shack and forget for a moment that her sister wouldn’t be waiting by the fire with Mother.

_At least Bethy and Father can be with Mother again,_ she thinks, but it somehow isn’t a comforting thought. Mother and Bethany should be here with her and not **dead**.

_Maker, what am I going to tell Carver?_

Carver. Another member of the family she hadn’t been able to save. Sure, he’s alive, but sometimes she wonders if she’s condemned him to something worse than death. The life of a Warden can’t be easy, and Anders had given her no illusions about that. But he insisted that Carver was the kind of person who would make a life for himself in the Order and enjoy it, but she can’t see how wandering the Deep Roads until you die can be considered enjoyable. She should’ve listened to their mother and never brought him on that damn expedition in the first place. If she hadn’t, maybe he’d still be with them.

Some hero she is. She can’t even save her own family.

In the days after Bethany died, she hadn’t cried. She’s never been much of a crier, and a large part of her couldn’t quite believe that her sister was even gone in the first place. She hasn’t cried for her mother yet either, but there’s more than just shock this time around. There’s grief, certainly, but there’s a strange combination of guilt and numbness that’s settled in as well. On the one hand, she feels as though she’s walking through a trance; but on the other, her guilty conscience is doing nothing but reminding her how half of her family being dead is her fault. Over and over again, she hears her mother’s dying voice in her head and the sickening sound of Bethany being flattened against the ground by that damn ogre.

Suddenly, she can’t breathe.

She carefully extracts herself from Anders’ arms, careful not to wake him. The man gets so little sleep as-is and the last thing she wants is for him to get even _less_ on her account. He was there in that bloodstained foundry with her earlier and he hadn’t left her side since then. She really doesn’t know what she’s done to deserve him, but whatever it was, it clearly hadn’t been enough.

Marian walks over to the window. The curtains are drawn, but she can see gray, early morning light. Despite being awake for well over 24 hours now, she hasn’t gotten any sleep— her conscience and her nightmares wouldn’t let her.

“Love?” Anders asks sleepily from behind her. Dammit. So much for not waking him. “Are you all right?”

_No, _is what she wants to say. _No, and I haven’t been for a while._ On some level, she knows that he knows that, too; he knows about her guilt and grief over Bethany’s death and how she’s really more cut up inside than her irreverent, sarcastic facade lets on. But pretending to be okay is far easier than confronting that, and surely he has better things to worry about than her problems. She’ll deal with this the same way she always does: force down her feelings, crack a few jokes, and hope that no one catches on.

So, she looks over her shoulder and forces a smile. “I’m fine.”

It’s a lie she wears well.


	4. advice; gen, dorian/lavellan

“I knew it,” Sera proclaims loudly, sliding off of the windowsill in her room at the Herald’s Rest and looking particularly pleased with herself. “You _like _Dorian!”

“W-What?!” Cyrlhen sputters, practically choking on the cheese he’d been eating. “I— no, it’s nothing—”

“‘Course it isn’t,” Sera says, waving her hand dismissively. “You’re both into weird mage-y shite, you both use big words all the time, and you got this dreamy look in your eyes when we were talking about him just now. And I saw you staring at his prissy butt when you were supposed to be talking to Josie the other day.”

“His outfit’s really shiny. It’s hard not to stare,” Cyrlhen offers meekly, and Sera gives him a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me look.

“You want to sword with him,” she says definitively.

“Please don’t call it that,” Cyrlhen groans, burying his face in his hands and feeling the tips of his ears heat up. “That’s not even how it works.”

If he’s being honest with himself, Cyrlhen had known that his feelings for the other mage aren’t strictly platonic ever since they’d gotten stuck in that bad future together and Dorian had assured him that he’d protect him. His heart gives a funny little skip whenever they talk now, and he has a bad habit of putting his foot in his mouth whenever he’s around. He’d just hoped that it wasn’t obvious. And apparently, much to his dismay, he’d thought wrong.

“Whatever,” Sera says, still looking quite proud of herself for having come to this conclusion. “Aren’t you gonna tell him?”

“Tell him what? ‘Hello, Dorian, I think you’re quite attractive and don’t know what to do about it?’ I wouldn’t even know what comes next. I’ve never…done anything like that before,” he admits, peering out from behind his hands. “I don’t know the first thing about being with someone.”

“There’s the swording.”

“_Sera,_” Cyrlhen groans again, and she laughs so hard she almost falls over. At least _someone’s _enjoying themselves.

“Well, anyways, I don’t see why not just tell him,” Sera says once she’s calmed down, sitting back down next to him on the windowsill. “If he’s got any room in his brain for things other than prissy bits and whatever weird Tevinter mage-y shite that’s in there, he’d be bloody stupid not to take you up on it.”

“You…do you mean that?” Cyrlhen asks, his embarrassment temporarily forgotten.

“That Dorian’s bloody stupid?” Sera sniffs. “‘Course. He uses those big words just to show off. I think he’s just swearing the rest of the time. No one really talks like that unless they’re a dinglebag.”

Cyrlhen snorts and elbows her lightly. “What does that make me, then?”

“A bigger dinglebag with a magic hand,” Sera says matter-of-factly. “Are we gonna finish this cheese, or what?”

* * *

“I had the most interesting conversation with Sera the other day,” Dorian says while browsing through books in the library, and Cyrlhen immediately feels the color drain from his face and his heart drop into his stomach.

“Oh?” he manages, already dreading where this is going.

“Yes,” Dorian continues, not seeming to pick up on his distress. “It mostly centered around the usual insults, but she did mention that if I ever did anything to hurt you, she would shove an arrow up my bum.”

Cyrlhen doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or throw himself off of the balcony and onto Solas’ desk. 

“That…does sound like Sera,” he says, trying his best to sound as casual as possible and likely failing miserably.

“I told her that I ideally prefer an arrow-free bum. Sounds awfully uncomfortable,” the other mage says cheerily. “And I assured her that my intentions with you are completely holistic.”

“I…they are?” Cyrlhen blinked, then kicked himself internally. “I mean, of course they are. Obviously. I have no idea why Sera would think otherwise.”

“Indeed.” Dorian raises an eyebrow, clearly amused as he looks over from the shelf he’d been skimming through. But if Cyrlhen didn’t know any better, he’d swear he could see a bit of hope mixed in there as well. “Well, seeing as your collection of early Imperium scripture is scandalously scant, would you like to accompany me on a walk? I feel as though I’ll go mad if I listen to Solas pace around down there any longer.”

“I would love to,” Cyrlhen says, not even caring that he answered almost embarrassingly quickly. And as he and Dorian make their way down the tower stairs, chatting amicably, he makes a mental note to buy Sera that bow she’d been pestering him for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Sera so much. Her friendship with the Inquisitor is super touching, too. She's the little sister Cyrlhen never had.


	5. together; anders/hawke

Anders is numb.

He’d never expected to make it this far; not after he drank darkspawn blood all those years ago, not after he merged with Justice and ran, not after he realized that the only option he had left to save the mages was to destroy Kirkwall’s Chantry. As he watches Kirkwall’s still-smoking skyline with a hole where the Chantry was shrink into the horizon, it doesn’t seem real. When he’d arrived at that blighted city fresh out of the Wardens, something in him knew that he wouldn’t be leaving it alive.

But here he is, because Hawke had a funny way of changing the narrative and surprising him at every turn.

Hawke…

Maker, she must hate him. The thought sends a pain through his chest that’s worse than any of the injuries he’d sustained in the last battle.

He’s laying on a cot in the cabin Isabela had assigned to him and Hawke. He can hear the sounds of the waves rocking up against the old wood of the ship, so he tries to focus on that instead of the pain in his side from where a templar’s blade had gotten him, splitting headache, and overwhelming feeling that he _shouldn’t be here._ Part of him wants to get up and look for Hawke, but he also doesn’t have the energy to do much of anything except lay in bed with his eyes closed.

Whether days or hours or weeks pass, he doesn’t know; but at some point, he hears the door creak open and someone come inside. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that it’s Hawke. Not only does living with someone for several years make you keenly aware of how their footsteps sound, but she’s the only one (apart from occasionally Isabela and Merrill) who’s willing to speak with him.

“Anders?”

He hums an acknowledgement. Hawke shuffles around the room for a bit, presumably getting ready for bed, before he feels the mattress dip and her sliding in next to him. The cot is most definitely not meant for two people and it’s certainly not like their bed at the estate, but it’s somehow still comfortable. It’s more than he deserves; part of him wants to hold onto Hawke and never let her go, and the other wants to leave to spare her from getting dragged down into this life with him.

“Isabela wants to make a supply stop tomorrow,” Hawke says. “Some port in Ferelden, I think. I’ve never heard of it. We’re apparently low on ale and it’s a travesty.”

He nods, and Hawke sighs.

“I know you never meant to get this far,” Hawke says carefully, “but we can’t keep doing this— playing pirate with Isabela, whatever it is— forever. We need more of a plan, and that’s something we need to come up with together.”

“I’m sorry, love. I…” Anders forces himself to roll over onto his good side and open his eyes so that he’s look at her now. “You shouldn’t…you shouldn’t be burdened with this. I never wanted to drag you down with me.”

Hawke shakes her head. “When I said ‘fugitives together,’ I meant that. This has always been my fight too, Anders. You don’t need to protect me.”

Anders bites his lip and instinctively pulls Hawke closer (somehow), feeling stupidly selfish as he does so. He wants to insist otherwise, tell her that she should run and that she deserves better than this; but he can’t find the words and rests his forehead against her shoulder instead.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles again, unsure of what else to say.

“Don’t be sorry,” she tells him, and he can feel her wrapping an arm around him. “Just promise me this: no more secrets. No more trying to protect me. From now on, we do things together. Understand?”

He thinks back to his days in Amaranthine, of all things— when he’d told the Warden-Commander (Hawke’s cousin, funnily enough; there’s no escaping from the Amells, apparently) that all he wanted in life was a decent meal, a pretty girl, and the right to shoot lightening at fools. Amell had snorted and shaken his head at that, then patted him on the shoulder— which surprised Anders more than the talking darkspawn did, because the Tristan Amell that he remembered from the Circle was hardly the touchy-feely type.

_“I’m sure there’s a woman with low enough standards out there,” _Amell said, pausing for a moment before adding, _“Just don’t stop yourself from being happy, Anders. Even mages like us can be happy every now and then.”_

Back then, he’d scoffed at that. Mages don’t get happy endings— especially not mages who live their entire lives running from one thing or another. But now, laying next to Hawke, who’d always stood by and loved him no matter what…he’s starting to think that perhaps the Commander had been onto something after all. Years ago, he never would’ve dreamed that ‘_happy’_ would involve living with the one he loves as fugitive rebel apostates, but his life always did have a funny way of never going according to plan.

_We do things together._

“Never again, love,” Anders finally says, looking up to meet Hawke’s gaze. “I promise”

Hawke smiles for the first time since Kirkwall at that, and it isn’t one of her usual sarcastic or amused smiles; it’s a genuine, happy smile that makes him realize that Amell had been right all along. The road ahead won’t be easy, but he won’t be alone; and that is enough to make him crack a small smile of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that Hawke and Anders had a very long Don't-Ever-Lie-To-Me-About-Blowing-Up-Chantries-Ever-Again conversation after the one in Kirkwall went boom, for...obvious reasons.


	6. moments; dorian/lavellan

It’s funny how Cyrlhen had to nearly die in order for Dorian to get a moment alone with him.

He looks better today; the color is returning to his skin a little, at least. Dorian adjusts the collar of the Inquisitor’s formalwear, admiring his handwork as the elf stands in front of a mirror.

“How do I look?”

“As dashing as always. You’re lucky you have me here,” Dorian says, catching Cyrlhen’s chin as his gaze starts to drift back towards the stump of his arm. “But you’re not as lucky as I am, I’m afraid.”

Lavellan covers his hand with his own and leans into his touch. “I only wish we had more time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of Feelings about Trespasser and I really need to write more with these two in it. Poor Dorian, man. He comes back from Tevinter right after his father died only to find out that his boyfriend is currently dying and their buddy turned out to be the Dread Wolf. Worst vacation ever.


	7. pressure; gen

Lately, Cyrlhen Lavellan felt as though he didn’t know what he was doing. He was the First of Clan Lavellan who’d somehow ended up being hailed as the “Herald of Andraste” (despite him insisting that he wasn’t anyone’s herald, much less some dead woman’s) because of the magic mark on his hand that could close rifts in the Fade. Then there was the small detail of him being placed at the head of the Inquisition and apparently being tasked with the job of saving the world when he hadn’t even been able to save Haven. On top of all of that, there was something going on with the Wardens, so they were headed off to Adamant at sunrise to try and stop them (somehow).

To put it lightly, he was stressed; and that stress was making it impossible to sleep.

Skyhold was quiet at night, which made it easy for him to take a walk without getting stopped every minute or so by scouts or new arrivals. On the other hand, it also left him alone with his thoughts, which didn’t help clear his head. Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was his clan getting slaughtered by Corypheus’ forces, Dorian killed by red templars, his friends dead, and the world destroyed because he was far from qualified to be the Inquisitor. Why couldn’t they have just let Cassandra do this, or Leliana? They were the ones who actually wanted to save the bloody Chantry in the first place.

Maybe he could go back to the clan and have a normal life as the Keeper’s First instead of Andraste’s Herald. Dorian might be upset with him for leaving, but with the alternative being life as they knew it coming to an end because of his incompetence, it was a risk he was willing to take.

Just as he toyed with the idea of going back to his quarters and getting his things in order to leave, he caught a glimpse of a figure leaning over the battlements. For a moment, he thought it was Cullen, up late finalizing the siege plans. The mage’s staff at the person’s back, however, made it clear who was up at there at this hour. Cyrlhen smiled slightly, shook his head, and made his way over to the stone stairs that led up to the battlements.

“You know,” he said upon reaching the top, “if Cassandra’s the reason you’re still hiding up here, she went to sleep a while ago.”

He didn’t think it was possible to startle the famous Champion of Kirkwall, but apparently, there’s a first for everything. Hawke nearly jumped at the sound of his voice, but she calmed almost immediately when she saw that it was only him and let out a small sigh of relief.

“Andraste’s ass,” she breathed. “Do you sneak up on everyone like that, or am I just special?”

“You’re just special,” he agreed, walking over to where she was standing. “Hawks aren’t nocturnal, you know. You should get some sleep.”

“I always fancied myself as more of a dragon than a bird, anyway.” Hawke shrugged lightly. “Regardless, I couldn’t sleep, and I suspect that you can’t, either.”

“All right, you caught me.” Cyrlhen raised up his hands in mock-surrender. “So what brings you out here? Nerves?”

“In a sense, I suppose.” Hawke turned and leaned over the battlements again. He noticed a folded up piece of paper in her hand and was fairly certain that he could make out ink stains on her fingers, but there wasn’t enough moonlight to tell for certain. “I don’t sleep very well in general without my better half.”

“Your— oh.”

She was either referring to that Anders fellow he’d heard so much about or her dog, but he was fairly certain she meant the former.

“I just keep thinking that something terrible’s happened to him, or that he’s forgotten to eat even though I told Dog to make sure that he does, or a million other things,” Hawke said. “And my nightmares love to come back haunt me when he’s not here, but I’m sure you didn’t come up here to listen to me talk about my problems.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” Cyrlhen offered. “Is that for him, then?”

“Oh, this.” Hawke glanced down at the paper she was holding. “Yes. Well, sort of. I don’t think I’ll send it for obvious reasons, but I thought writing it would help. Maybe I’ll give it to him when I get home so he can read all about the Wardens’ bullshit for himself.”

“You’ll go home to him soon.” He nodded. “And when you do, you’ll have a hell of a story tell.”

Hawke huffed out a small laugh at that. “That’s the story of my life, really. Apart from the version of it Varric tells, anyway.”

A few moments passed in companionable silence after that. It was a relief to know that even the Champion of Kirkwall could still be nervous about things. If anyone would know what he was going through (apart from the glowing hand thing), it would probably be her.

“How do you do it?” Cyrlhen asked, trying to keep his expression carefully neutral to hide his fear. “When you were in Kirkwall, so many people relied on you. You saved a lot of people. It’s…it must’ve been a lot of pressure.”

“While I’m touched by your faith in me, I think the current state of Kirkwall might disagree with that sentiment.” Hawke raised an eyebrow. “But we’re not talking about me, are we?”

Dammit.

“…No,” he admitted after a pause, glancing away and letting his words just spill out. “I just…I want to go home. I can’t do this. I’m not meant to be the Inquisitor. I don’t know how to lead these people, or save them. Everything could go wrong at Adamant and those deaths will be on me. If Corypheus destroys the world…that’s on me. It’s all on me.”

There was another silence as he quickly wiped at his eye with the back of his hand, hoping that Hawke hadn’t seen anything. If she did, she didn’t comment. Her face was sympathetic and thoughtful as she turned so that she was fully facing him.

“Inquisi— Cyrlhen,” she said, her arms folded. “For whatever reason, you too are on the receiving end of the universe’s cruel, sick sense of humor. Running from it might seem tempting, but that also means running from what matters most— the things you stand to lose if everything goes south. If you stay, even if you fail, you still tried to protect them. Or, if nothing else, stay out of spite. That’s just as good a motivation as any.”

He looked at the letter in Hawke's hand and suddenly understood. He thought of his clan, Dorian, his friends, the people he’d met during his journeys with the Inquisition. Hawke was right: someone had to fight for them and keep them safe. And even if he didn’t know what he was doing, he still had to try. There was no running.

“I…all right.” He still didn’t feel entirely confident, but at least he remembered why he was fighting in the first place. He had to stay and try his damnedest to protect what mattered most. “Thank you, Hawke. For listening. And for the advice.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised at how people just walk up to me and reveal their innermost thoughts.” She waved her hand dismissively. “But for what it’s worth, I think you’ve been doing a good job. Not everyone has the guts to look the Chantry in the eye and tell them to screw off, Ser Not-Herald.”

Maybe he wasn’t a hero, but the Not-Herald was a good enough place to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might still be bitter about how Hawke's DAI cameo went, but at least she got to hang with my Inquisitor in Skyhold for a bit?


	8. letters; anders/hawke

My Dearest Cat Wrangler,

I never saw the point in writing letters you don’t plan on sending, but now I’m starting to see the appeal. Who decided that basing the Inquisition in the Frostbacks was a good idea, anyway? Furthermore, why did we decide to settle down in the middle of nowhere so that if V asked me to come help with his apparent religious awakening, I would have to travel across the continent to help? The things I do for you.

Moving on, I managed to make it back to civilization and am currently spending the night in a rather questionable inn. I’m expecting a bar fight to break out before morning; or maybe that’s just my inner Marcher reminiscing about Kirkwall. It’s been a long, lonely trip so far, and I still have a fair distance to go before it’s over. I miss you.

I don’t know when I’ll be home, but you’d better take care of yourself in the meantime. There’s a good reason why I left Dog in charge. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone, remember to eat at least once a day, and don’t go off and start too many revolutions without me.

Love,  
Your Favorite Dragon Slayer

P.S.: I wasn’t kidding about Dog being in charge.

* * *

My Most Darling Feather Enthusiast,

I finally arrived at our friendly neighborhood dwarf’s Chantry party this afternoon in one piece. V’s doing well, by the way. I think he might still be a bit sore at you over the last time we were all together, but he sends his regards. He’s kept our whereabouts a secret from the Inquisition, too, so we shouldn’t have to worry about some rather unfortunate houseguests when I get home— which is why I still don’t plan on sending this letter. Maybe I’ll just give it you myself.

You’d like the Inquisitor, I think. He’s a Dalish mage, but thankfully isn’t trying to fix any demon mirrors. He and I had a very long conversation over recent happenings last night over ale that didn’t take like sawdust mixed with nug droppings. You just can’t get decent shitty ale anymore, it seems. The Inquisition is better than I was expecting, too: the Inquisitor offered a full alliance to the mages and told the templars to go screw themselves (those aren’t the exact words he used— I might be paraphrasing a bit), and the Chantry sisters here have kept their disapproving glares to a minimum— which is a shame, because I was so looking forward to scandalizing them.

Oh, that reminds me: you remember our good friend Knight-Captain Noodles from Kirkwall, don’t you? Well, he’s Commander Noodles now. He leads the Inquisition’s forces. I don’t know how he’s qualified to hold that position, but he looked as though he was going to jump out his office window when I stopped by to say hello. And here I thought we were such good friends, too.

We’re headed off to Crestwood tomorrow to meet with Stroud about the latest bought of Warden bullshit. What could possibly go wrong?

Yours always,  
Lady Qunari Ass Kicker, Esquire

P.S.: The dog had better give me a good report when I get home.

* * *

My Most Dashing Fellow Illegal Mage,

Were the Wardens always this infuriating? I know you people love your secrets, but really? Blood magic? Why is it always blood magic? Hasn’t anyone figured out by now that nothing good ever comes of it?

Thanks to Wardens’ bought of poor decision-making, we’re all headed off to Adamant Fortress tomorrow to knock some sense into them. I’m writing this at what is most likely a truly indecent hour of the night and I probably need to be up in a few hours anyway, but I can’t sleep. Do you remember how I couldn’t sleep very well the night the most pleasant Chantry sister we’ve ever encountered went and made an ass of herself trying to start an insane war with our good Qunari friend? It’s sort of like that, only this time, the mess is my fault instead of someone I should’ve punched years before she went full on crazy.

In the off chance that something does happen to me at Adamant and I don’t make it home, I’ve asked V to send you the letters I’ve written you and several other documents. If nothing happens, I’ll give you everything myself while you yell at me for running off to do stupidly dangerous things and play hero again (as it should be).

If you’re getting all of this from Varric: I’m sorry I left you alone, and I’m sorry my decision-making skills are poor enough to have led to this point. I’m sorry that I wasn’t better. I know you probably won’t take this well, but please: go on living. Try to be happy. If you come and join me right away, I’ll kick your ass and we can’t have that. Please, love.

If you’re getting all of this from me: I’ll have probably scribbled out the above. Nothing to worry about, dear! :) See, look, I drew a happy face for emphasis.

There are a lot of things I want to say, but I can’t find the words. Maybe it’s because of the sleep deprivation, or maybe it’s because it’s hard to express everything I want to tell you. I have a long time to think it over, I suppose.

I love you. But you know that. You always have, because you turn me into such a sap around you that it’s embarrassing.

I’ll see you soon.

Love,  
Me

* * *

Blondie,

H is fine. She’s headed to Weisshaupt. Long story, but she can give you the details. Thought you’d like to know where she is. I think Junior’s going to meet up with her at some point.

Take care of yourself and don’t do anything stupid. Well, anything else stupid.

— V


	9. epilogue; amell/leliana

What woke Tristian Amell that morning was not dreams of darkspawn and the blight, but the sound of the rain soaking Val Royeaux before dawn.

He couldn’t remember when he’d become such a light sleeper. Jowan had always used to say that he slept like the dead back in the Circle, and Nathaniel had mentioned something similar in Amaranthine when he’d apparently slept through Varel knocking on his door nearly a dozen times in half an hour. But now, all it took was the quiet pitter-patter of rain against the old Orlesian stone to wake him. Maybe he _was_ getting old after all.

After spending Maker-knows-how-long staring at the ceiling and deciding that he wasn’t going back to sleep, Tristan gently untangled himself from Leliana, careful not to wake her, and padded over to the large, ornate window of their apartment. Schmooples II raised an ear and perked his head up from his pillow bed when he heard him, but Amell put a finger to his lips so the nug wouldn’t start to squeak. Maker damn him, but he was actually starting to _like_ Leliana’s ugly subterranean bunny-pigs.

The gray, early morning light was already streaming through the window as Val Royeaux began to arise and the rain showed no signs of stopping. He watched some Chantry sisters in the courtyard for a moment, absentmindedly musing that there was _no way_ this was actually his life now. Warden-Commander Tristian Amell ended the Fifth Blight and spent nearly a decade serving the Wardens and searching for an end to the Calling, and now he was staying at Grand Cathedral while awaiting his longtime partner’s formal ascension to the Sunburst Throne. Wardens didn’t_ get_ happy endings. Their lives usually ended abruptly and painfully long before they had time to settle in to some sense of contentedness like this.

Amell was so lost in his own thoughts that he almost didn’t hear a soft, sleepy voice from behind him.

“Tristan?”

Dammit.

“Sorry,” he said, kicking himself internally as he glanced over his shoulder at Leliana and gave her an apologetic shrug. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Of course you didn’t,” she replied. Even in the gray light and with her red hair still a mess from sleep, she was still the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. “Was it a nightmare?”

“No, not a nightmare.” Amell shook his head. “Slept better than I have in years, actually.”

Leliana tossed the covers aside and crossed the room, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder. “Too luxurious, then? We’ll go camping tomorrow, if you like. Lavellan’s always spoken quite highly of his time in the Fallow Mire.”

Tristan snorted at that. “Smart man.”

They lapsed into silence for a moment, letting the continued sound of the rain rapping against the walls fill the room.

“I know this…isn’t what you would’ve chosen,” Leliana finally said quietly. “And I…you’ve no idea how much it means that you’re here. I was so terrified for you, after Adamant. Getting your letter felt like being able to breathe again.”

Tristan winced. They’d both been through too much over the years. “I’m just sorry I wasn’t there when Justinia died. I know what she meant to you.”

Leliana shook her head. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

“Still should’ve been there.” Tristan sighed. “I would’ve come to the Inquisition sooner, too, but—”

“Tristan,” Leliana said sharply, cutting him off. “You know I was never upset with you for that. You carry too much, my love.”

She was right, and he knew it. And maybe the part of him that didn’t know how to let go was also the one that had no idea how to settle into what was likely the closest they’d ever get to a happily-ever-after. It wasn’t just the darkspawn she was talking about; it was the fact that deep down inside of him, there was still that angry Circle mage who was ripped away from his mother. There was still a little boy who was forced to grow up soon and pushed others away to protect himself. If he wasn’t fighting _something— _even himself— who _was_ he anymore? Had he truly forgotten what _peace_ felt like?

“Maybe I do,” he mumbled, and Leliana kissed his cheek.

“I know you do,” she said, “but you don’t have to carry it all on your own anymore.”

It was amazing how, back when they’d first met, he would’ve snorted and said _yeah, right._ The only way he’d ever did anything was on his own, and he couldn’t imagine it any other way. The permanence of their relationship would’ve scared him. And maybe deep down, it still did. But he was past that; he was where he needed to be, and he thought that maybe it was time to let himself hang up his sword.

“No, I don’t,” he agreed.

Leliana returned his smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leliana deserves a happy ending too, gdi.


	10. rumors; gen, amell/leliana

“I overheard an interesting rumor about you, Tristan Amell,” Anders said, sliding into the tavern seat next to the Warden-Commander. Not that it had much competition, but Amaranthine’s tavern was one of his favorite spots in all of the arling. It was much more lively than the Keep was, at least, and he would never say no to decent drink and good company— or grumpy company, in the Commander’s case. 

Tristan sighed tiredly and took a sip of his drink. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

“And _I_ can’t believe that I had to find out through Oghren that you have a girlfriend!” Anders melodramatically placed a hand over his heart. “_Oghren_, Tris. I thought what we had was special.”

Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose, and Anders could almost swear that Nathaniel was snickering from his seat on Amell’s other side— but that would require Nate to grow a sense of humor first, so he was probably only imagining things.

“It isn’t as though you ever _asked_, for starters,” Tristan said. “Second, has it occurred to you that _maybe _I neglected to mention it because I knew you’d be insufferable about it?”

“What? No! I’m never insufferable!” Anders pouted. “Tell him, Nate.”

“You’re insufferable,” Nathaniel offered.

Anders folded his arms after waving the bartender over for a drink. “You’re both terrible.” 

“I’ve noticed something interesting about you, Commander,” Nathaniel said. “By my count, you’ve nearly punched around seven nobles for getting on your nerves, and yet you’re willing to put up with Anders’ antics without punching him.”

“It’s because he loves me,” Anders said, rather matter-of-factly, throwing an arm around Tristan’s shoulders. “The Circle has a way of bringing people together, you know. Probably because it’s a claustrophobic tower with no windows, but still: together.”

“It’s because he hasn’t left me the fuck alone for over a decade,” Tristan deadpanned, folding his arms but not pushing Anders off of him. “Must be the Maker’s way of punishing me for all the shit I’ve said about the Chantry over the years.”

“And the swearing,” Anders added cheerfully. “Don’t forget about the swearing. And who could forget your absolutely_ radiant_ personality?”

“Anders?”

“Hm?”

“Shut up,” Tristan said good-naturedly, downing the rest of his drink.

“I don’t think he’s capable of that,” Nathaniel pointed out.

_“Anyway,” _Anders interjected, “don’t think I’ve forgotten about this girlfriend of yours, Tris. I want details. How and when did this happen?”

“You’re really that surprised that I have a girlfriend?” Tristan asked. “I thought I had a…what did you call it? _‘Radiant personality?’_”

“Yes! You used to spend more time glaring at people than I thought was humanly possible. You need to teach me how to do that brooding thing you do, by the way; the women in the Circle found it incredibly attractive.” The bartender arrived with a drink, which Anders gratefully took a sip of it. “You know, you could’ve been very popular with the ladies if you weren’t such a grump about it all the time.”

“I don’t brood,” Tristan said. “And who said I wasn’t?”

Anders almost choked on his drink. _“What?”_

“You think you’re the only one who had fun back then?” Tristan raised an eyebrow. “I just didn’t go around talking about it. In fact, I remember a few years ago, I snuck into a supply closet on the fourth floor with that one apprentice—”

“Not listening!” Anders blanched and clamped his hands over his ears. It was one thing to tease an old friend about his newfound love life, but it was another thing entirely to hear about the…_liaisons_ of someone you’d known as an adolescent. Nope, too many details, and none of them were ones that he wanted. “La la la! Not listening!”

Tristan smirked and turned to Nathaniel. “All right, Howe. Pay up.”

Nathaniel sighed and raised his hands in defeat. “I concede to you, Commander. Well played.”

“Wait, what?” Anders took his hands off of his ears. “What are you talking about?”

“Howe thought that I couldn’t scar you for life,” Tristan explained, rather matter-of-factly. “So we made a friendly bet about it. I just proved him wrong and earned some coin while I was at it, so thanks for that.”

“Wait— you made a bet about that?!” Anders wasn’t sure if he should take offense to that, find it funny, or both. But it also made him realize something: that Tristan Amell had grown up quite a bit since they’d seen each other last. No longer was he the tired, angry teenager with a chip on his shoulder; there was something lighter and more mature about him now. 

Even if his sense of humor was still downright evil.

“Mmhm.” Tristan leaned back in his chair, looking rather pleased himself. 

“You’re both terrible and I hate you,” Anders pouted, taking a long sip of his drink before something occurred to him. “Wait. Were you being serious or not? About being popular with the ladies in the Circle, I mean. Now I’m morbidly curious.”

“I don’t kiss and tell, Anders.”

Yup, definitely evil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish Anders had more exclusive dialogue with Amell and Surana about their time in the Circle, but oh well. That's what headcanons are for.


	11. reprieve; gen

“Do you think Carver got Mother away in time?” Bethany asks. Her eyes are wide and fearful, and her face is streaked with ash. Marian tries not to think about the decimated village behind them.  
  
“I should hope so,” she says, trying her best to sound as casual as possible while running for their lives. “A Blight is a perfect opportunity to get some use out of an oversized sword. It’d be a shame if it went to waste.”

“You’re terrible, Sister,” Bethany responds, although she sounds like she’s trying very hard not to smile.

But as they run, the burning trees over their heads seem to whisper a warning. _Only disaster lies ahead._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think of this as a snapshot taken moments before disaster, because my Hawke is a mage and...yeah. Poor Bethany. :(


End file.
